The latest from thunder6 in Iraq.

The musings of one of my favorite Milbloggers on life in a combat zone. Someday, this blog and others like it will help to write the history of this war.

August 15, 2005

Oceans of Time

I once heard that the largest rivers in the world don’t cascade from high mountains, they silently churn across the tract less sea in wide ribbons of kinetic force. Time here in Baghdad flows like those broad currents, always churning forward in some great anonymous flow. Out here a calendar isn’t just a schedule. It’s a map. And a lifeline. And an anchor.
There is no pattern to our days here, no chronological landmarks to tether your memories to. You don’t realize how comforting the orderly progression of the week really is until the days of the week become arbitrary symbols. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Saturday. Sunday. In a world far from this place these words carry power. But here in Baghdad they sit idle and useless. There are no weekends to look forward to, no hump days to cleave the work week into manageable chunks. There is just the slow march of the calendar. Day after day. Month after month. Life reduced to geometry, with each square representing a day. And each page a callous reminder of all that has been lost, and how much more must yet be borne.

Today is a sad anniversary of sorts, because it marks the one year point in our deployment. Twelve pages of my calendar now lie crumpled, the discarded paper bearing witness to a year of youth and a year of life… gone. I am still proud to serve here with my fellow Nightstalkers, but pride isn’t a magical pill that heals all hurt. It doesn’t make the days ahead seem any shorter. Fortunately the road ahead is shorter then the road behind. And for now that will have to be enough. Permalink

August 14, 2005

Range Day

The M4 carbine is a lethal tool, but in the end it is just that… a tool. The situation profoundly changes when that tool is placed in the hands of a trained infantryman. It is as if the two exist in some martial symbiosis; each taking, each giving. When an infantryman picks up a rifle those carefully machined components stop being callous collections of metal and become the fluid extension of his will. The catalyst for this hybridization isn’t some technological marvel – it’s the natural result of trigger time.

When I say trigger time I’m not referring to pressing a button on a video console. Comparing first person shooting games to combat marksmanship is like comparing a ride on the plastic pony in front of a supermarket with saddling up a thoroughbred. If you want to be deadly accurate there is no substitute for being on a range. Permalink

August 13, 2005

Scorch Marks

This morning Killer Company was sitting down for a round table meeting when the flat, low crunch of a distant explosion rumbled over the command post. The ugly sound stripped the air of any sonic rival - leaving a grim stillness in its wake. There followed a pregnant pause, as if some stranger had intruded into a private conversation between friends and suddenly silenced the group. The conversation finally sputtered back to life like a doddering car lurching into gear. And not a word was spoken about our ill favored guest.

But just a few kilometers away, on the molten rivers of asphalt that bisect our Battalions AO there was no ignoring that crushing wave of concussion. To the soldiers of our sister company the bone cracking sound wasn’t simply an uninvited guest – it was a murderous intruder bent on rending muscle and bone. But I am getting a little ahead of myself, let me start at the beginning. Permalink